


you are a cinema (i could watch you forever)

by bellakink (theoneinquisitor)



Series: the 100 kink meme 2019 [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But Consensual Because She Knows and She Loves It, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism, WTFfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 03:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17655314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/bellakink
Summary: Bellamy gets a new neighbor who may or may not be an exhibitionist. And he can't stop watching.





	you are a cinema (i could watch you forever)

**Author's Note:**

> Fill from the 100 Kink Meme: Bellamy lives in the apartment complex next to Clarke's and likes to watch her through the window while she has sex and/or masturbates. Bonus if she catches him. Bonus if she doesn't let on that she knows and puts on little shows for him.

The first time is unintentional.

Bellamy is standing on his balcony minding his own business with a blunt between his fingers and his phone playing the newest Hozier album softly from the small table wedged in the corner. He doesn’t usually smoke, but the midterms from hell are finally over and Miller left him a little present to congratulate him on surviving. Why not, right? He takes a long pull, enjoying the spring air as it ghosts along his cheek and mixes with the THC. It's strong, a little  _too_ strong, in fact, and he worries that his neighbors might actually catch a whiff and come out shaking their fists because,  _God, they have kids!_  Though, he's certain that weed is absolutely not the worst thing those kids have been exposed to in this place. That title is shared by the strung out couple in 4W and the entire second floor he's pretty sure is involved with some kind of underground hacking business. He doesn't ask.

The building itself is probably the worst design he's ever seen, a brick square he thinks had to be built in the midst of the Great Depression as fortress for illicit activities. It's the only thing that would explain the shitty courtyard down below, just a slab of concrete with one lonely tomato plant that someone must not be watering because it's beginning to wilt. He supposes it wasn't meant for anything, surely not to help space out the units. No, the tenants are all practically on top of one another, balconies separated by painted wooden plank. Even the unit across from him, with the added space of the courtyard, is no more than fifteen feet away, which essentially means there is next to no privacy for anyone. 

Overall, not an ideal place to live. The walls are thin, people loud. But he did manage to luck into a top-floor corner unit, a small studio for a flat rate of 300 bucks a month, utilities included. While the stairs do suck, especially when hauling groceries, he does get a little  _more_  privacy and his view consists of the melancholic courtyard and Ms. Fitz and her three cats across the way. She’s nice.  Even if she calls him Bill despite the multiple times he’s told her his actual name.

He takes another drag, finally beginning to feel well and stoned when suddenly, a light flicks on. The familiar sound of the sliding glass door sticking to its track across the way has him pressing the blunt into the rusted railing quickly, waving his hand to help the smoke dissipate. He lifts his hand to wave at Ms. Fitz, play-off the fact that he is the culprit behind the suddenly skunky smell in the air, when he pauses.

It’s not Ms. Fitz letting out her cats or watering her plants. Instead, he sees a flash of blonde and a light giggle floats those few feet separating them. There’s a girl, maybe around his age, maybe a little younger though it's hard to tell in the dark. She's definitely not Ms. Fitz. Her blonde hair is hanging in perfect little ringlets over her shoulders as she leans against the railing, bending over just enough to give him a front row view of her cleavage. She’s wearing a tight little dress, the color a bit hard to make out -- it’s dark, maybe black or navy. It suits her. Even from a distance, he can see that she’s attractive, a bright smile, flushed cheeks. Her eyes are fluttering and her lips part like someone is…

She leans over a bit further, and it’s then he sees someone behind her. They’re short but stocky, and he can make out the quiet hiss of a male voice.  He can’t see a face, it’s masked by the shadows of her own balcony now that the light is off, but he can see a hand snake around the girls waist. He hears the faint clink of a belt.

_Oh._

The song switches behind him, the soft melody of  _Almost_ playing as the girl moans to the same tune. He can't be sure if she hears the music, but if she does, she mustn't care because she shows no fear of being caught. Her eye are closed as she tosses her head back, exposing the column of her throat. With every thrust, her tits bounce a little heavier and he's almost certain they're going to pop out of her dress.

 _I wouldn't know where to start_  
_Sweet music playin' in the dark_  
_Be still my foolish heart_  
_Don't ruin this on me_  
_I wouldn't know where to start_  
_Sweet music playin' in the dark_  
_Be still my foolish heart_  
_Don't ruin this on me_

He should walk away, he knows he should. He's intruding on something intimate. Something private, though they're very much on display. Yet, he can't look away. He can tell she’s trying to be quiet, whimpering like she’s biting into her lip. The guy must hit a certain spot, because then she moans, really moans, and it echoes through the courtyard for everyone to hear. It’s hot. So fucking hot, he feels his dick twitch in his jeans.

He should really go inside.

The man’s hand snakes its way into her hair, wrapping itself in her hair and pulling it back. Another moan and when his thrusts go faster, the dress finally releases itself and with her head pulled back, it gives him a glorious view of her tits. Fuck.

He reaches down to adjust the full on bulge in his jeans, because he absolutely will not whip his dick out on his balcony. He will not get off to the strange couple fucking in Ms. Fitz’s apartment. He will not.

But he doesn’t go inside. Not until they finish.

* * *

It’s not Ms. Fitz’s apartment anymore. Somehow he missed that she moved out nearly three weeks ago. Fucking mid-terms made him oblivious to the world. So instead of the old cat lady across the way, instead he's now neighbors with a hot blonde who just so happens to be an exhibitionist. 

Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, right? 

Not a week after her display on her balcony, he sees her again.  He’s on his way from the couch, popcorn popping in the microwave while _Ma_ _n in the High Castle_ recaps on his television. The lights are off, his balcony door open. He would say it’s because he enjoys the fresh air, but it’s New York and one, there is no fresh air. Two, his air conditioning has been out since last summer. So, he’s, again, minding his own business when a light across the way flips on.

He reroutes his steps to the open door, glancing out and quickly forgetting about the popcorn or his television show. The hot blonde is at it again.

She’s not on her balcony this time, but on her bed. Her own door is open, bedroom brightly lit by a floor lamp in the corner and her hand is in between her thighs.  His conscious once again tells him to walk away, to leave her to her business. Except his brain is working overtime to convince him that it's okay - why else would she put her bed right in front of the glass door if she didn't want people to see her? Why would she keep the door open?  

She must find something spectacular, arching off the bed as one hand fondles her tits, the other rubbing furiously between her legs,  and letting out a now all to familiar moan that slides into his space.

_Shit._

The microwave dings. The blonde removes her hand for a brief moment, only to pull the shirt over her head and toss it across the room. Her tits, those fucking tits, huge and heavy on her chest. She reaches up to play with them both, plucking at her nipples, visibly rosy against her creamy skin,  before reaching over to grab something, hand returning with some long and sleek. A vibrator. She clicks it on before it disappears between her legs and she begins fucking herself with it.

His hand travels to his tented shorts and palms at his dick. This is wrong. He shouldn’t be touching himself to some girl he doesn’t know, some girl who is just trying to get herself off.

 _Door open. Lights on. That makes it okay!_ The dark corners of his mind justify once more.

He steps into the corner of his balcony for a better view. Cloaked in darkness, he reaches into his shorts and strokes himself. He shutters at his own touch. It’s been too long. So long, in fact, he can’t even remember the last time he masturbated, let alone had a good fuck. He needs this. He wants it.

She’s writhing on her bed, legs shaking as she pleasures herself. He bets her pussy is fucking soaked, thinks about how hot and tight it would feel if it were his cock she were fucking herself on. Her tits, he tries to think about how they would feel underneath his hands. Soft skin surrounding perfectly pointed nipples, growing harder as he pinches them, sucks them in between his teeth. She'd probably like that. If the way she pays extra attention to her chest is any indication.

She turns over, giving him an adequate view of her ass, and Jesus, does she want him to know every fucking part of her? His hand begins to pump faster because now, _now,_ he’s thinking about what her ass would feel like. Bouncing as he fucked her, how it would sound when he’d slap it, gripping in his fingers as he guided her up and down. Or maybe how it would feel on his cock, slipping into that tight little hole and fucking her until she couldn't walk straight. She’d let out that moan, breathy and raw. She’d come for him. He would make her come, wouldn’t stop until he did.

When she rolls onto her back again, her hand is jerking furiously and she’s pressing her heels into the bed. She’s close, he thinks, he can see it in the wild concentration, the pout of her lips as she moves faster. Faster. He'd pound into her, fuck her good and fast like she wanted -- his hand is working furiously at his cock.  Only moments later he watches as she shoots up from the mattress, mouth curved into a perfect ‘o’, wrist still working as she takes herself through it.

He comes with a low grunt, spilling over his hand and into his boxers. And he’s never felt so good, yet so bad, in his entire life.

* * *

Three times is a pattern. And what a pattern it is.

He starts keeping his door open when he’s home.

She enjoys being naked, it seems. Or at the very least, in the most minimal amount of clothing possible. At all hours of the day. Anytime she’s home, basically. She spends a lot of time in her bedroom, lying on her bed in nothing but a t-shirt and lacy set of boyshorts. Reading or on the computer. Painting. Fucking. Herself or other people, doesn’t matter. She gets off almost every single night, always a theatrical display.

She brings home a girl a few weeks after the first guy, another pretty blonde who laughs a lot and eats her out for a solid half hour. He doesn’t even make it ten minutes before he’s coming into his hand again, imagining what her pussy would taste like on his tongue. Sweet, tangy even. Perfect. When she finally comes, it’s when she’s on top, riding the girls face like there’s no tomorrow. Her head is tossed back, hips rocking back and forth as she goes, hands on her tits as always. What he would give to have her ride his face like that. Fuck.

A couple days later, it’s another girl. Brunette this time, tall and lean and he watches in awe when the blonde pulls out a strap-on. She slides into the harness slowly, pulling it to her waist and tightening the straps like she’s doing some kind of demonstration.  The brunette watches her lube it up, playing with herself as she waits, mouth slightly agape because, damn, what a sight. . Bellamy can relate because watching the blonde fuck her like that, hard and rough, has him blowing his load in two minutes flat . He’s pretty aware of his own kinks but blonde in a strap-on? That’s a new one. And he likes it a lot. She looks good with it on, even better using it.

But his favorite is when it’s just her. When she’s touching herself, taking her time running her hands along her body and exploring. She often starts the same way, fondling her breasts, teasing her clit usually while she’s still standing and trying to decide how she wants it. Sometimes she’ll lay on the bed fuck herself with her fingers, keeping it simple and sweet. Other times she’ll pull out a toy, and he’s learned that she has many -- a vibrator, a dildo, a strap on. She comes quicker when she uses those. When she gets bored of doing that, that’s when she’ll bring out her pillow and ride it. She rides it slow and fast, fucks it so good his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when he comes because he’s getting a glimpse of how she would look riding his cock.

He tells himself it’s getting unhealthy, making a point to stay home every night just to watch her. His dick is going to end up chapped if he keeps it up. Miller calls him up and asks him to go out for a beer or two, and he agrees because he does still have a life and hell, maybe he can try to pick someone up and stop being a fucking perv.

He’s locking up, shutting the sliding door when he spots her. She steps out onto her balcony, a silk robe draped over her shoulders and tied loosely at her waist. She scans her surroundings, pausing when she finds his unit. He worries she spots him watching for a moment, thinking even with the lights off, she can still see him. But then she passes him without a second glance and reaches down to untie the silk string. She’s not naked this time, but almost. She’s wearing a nightgown, a sheer piece of cloth that he can see her pert little nipples through with a matching set of panties.

Honestly, he’s still prepared to walk away, his hand on the door beginning to slide it shut. But then she sits down, spreading her legs wide when she puts her feet on the rail and putting her pussy on display. He sighs when he feels his jeans tightens, glances at his watch to check the time. He’s supposed to be there in ten minutes.

He wishes he had more restraint.

He slips outside, finding his way to the familiar shadows so as not to be seen and unbuckles his belt as quietly as he can. She’s close enough that even in the dark he can see that pretty pussy of hers spread wide. Glistening. She’s pumping her fingers in and out, wiggling in the chair as she does so. He strokes himself at the same pace, following her lead. His dick is sensitive, especially since he didn’t go back for lube or lotion, and he’s not even sure if he’ll be able to come. But then he hears it, the faint sound of her fingers going in and out, and he has to bite back his own moan. Seeing her is one thing, but hearing her, hearing it, is another level. Her cunt is dripping, that much he can tell. Pre-cum beads at the head of his dick, and he makes quick work of slicking himself up.. The relief is instant and she begins to pick up the pace. In and out, in and out, while he’s up and down, up and down. She’s panting now as she goes, whimpering as she gets closer and closer.  

He closes his eyes, focuses on the sound of her cunt and imagines that it’s his cock creating them. His breath is coming out in spurts, and he’s biting into his lip so hard to keep from making a noise, he draws blood.

“Fuck,” he hears her whine, “Fuck that’s good, baby, I’m coming.”

All she has to do is say it and he’s tumbling over the edge with her silently, making a mess of his jeans. It’s the first time he’s ever heard her voice, and even it is fucking magnificent. He sighs quietly, sitting there covered in his own come. She goes inside after a minute and once he’s sure she can’t see him, he slides back into his apartment.

Damn it.

With his clean hand, he manages to text Miller a bullshit excuse. _Running late. Forgot my wallet at home and had to go back._

He kicks off his jeans and jumps in the shower, cleaning off the evidence of his indiscretion once more.

* * *

Three months in and it becomes easier. Almost another part of his day. Get up. Coffee. Class. Library. Bar. Home. Watch the neighbor. Jerk off. Sleep.

So of course, now that it's down to a rhythm, he has to learn her fucking name.

He’s doing his laundry for the first time that month, having continuously put it off because he was hellbent on being a lazy sack of potatoes during his short summer break. But now summer term has begun, and he can’t really get away with wearing the same shirt three days in a row and it’s time to be a fucking adult.

He doesn’t hear anyone come in, preoccupied with switching his load from washer to dryer. They place their basket on the washer next to him and when he leans up, he sees a familiar pair of lacy boy shorts and he _hates_ that he recognizes them. He follows the hand gripping the basket to a somewhat familiar face -- her features are much more pronounced in the light, and he has to say, she’s even more beautiful in person. Full mouth, a beauty mark dusting her top lip, and bright blue eyes. She gives him a small smile and begins tossing her clothes into the washer casually.

Is he supposed to talk to her? How does he talk to her? What is he supposed to say?

He’s always known, abstractly, that  she’s a real person. But watching from afar has created this illusion, this fantasy, that was easy to justify. He could get off to her without her knowing, without knowing her, and everything would be fine. Except now she’s standing at the washer next to him and all he can think about is how many times he’s come because of her.

“Tolstoy, huh?”

He jumps at the sound of her voice. It’s different like this. Normal. Not coated in lust. She’s pointing at the book splayed out on the plastic chair next to him. He swallows, finally gaining the courage to look up at her.

He can play it cool. He can. She’s just a neighbor. That’s it.

“It makes me look more pretentious than I am,” he jokes lamely.

She smiles anyway. “Let me guess. School?”

The summer term has started and he’s back to drowning in classic literature and their historical meanings, essays and theses. “Unfortunately.

“You at NYU?”

“Columbia.”

She lets out a low whistle. “So you _are_ pretentious.”

He laughs. “Guilty.”

She leans against the washer as it hums, and he tries not to get distracted when it jerks, causing her tits to bounce in her shirt. She’s definitely not wearing a bra.

“What about you?” he says, trying to keep the conversation casual.

_Don’t think about her tits. Don’t think about that wet, throbbing cunt, her fingers fucking into herself…_

“Not in school,” she says, “Dropped out last semester.”

“So, what do you do then?”

And just like that, she’s no longer a fantasy. She’s an artist. A med-school drop out. Enjoys sesame seed bagels and Matisse and Monet. She’s sarcastic and he finds that he likes talking to her. His thoughts don’t wander again, thankfully, and almost an hour passes before he pulls his last load from the dryer and gets ready to leave. He wants to stay but he’s meeting some classmates for dinner and he doesn’t think “I’m talking to the neighbor I creep on every night, sorry can’t come,” would work as an excuse.

“I’m Clarke, by the way.” she introduces with a giggle, “ I didn’t even bother introducing myself before launching into my life story.”

_Clarke. Her name is Clarke._

“Bellamy.”

“Well, Bellamy, it’s _very_ nice to meet you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was the whole fill I did on the original post but I've been adding more, so part 2 should be up at some point next week. Also, tbh I wrote this while in the middle of watching You on Netflix and I 100% believe that it influenced this fic lmao
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: Octannibal-blake


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